Pink Lip Gloss
by stilljustceci
Summary: Rosalie Hale doesn't like parties, doesn't like kisses, and she certainly doesn't like pink. Alice and a tube of lip gloss are about to help change things for her. New & improved version of a FemSlash one-shot for the TwiSlash Unveiled contest. AH/SLASH


My name is Rosalie Hale. I'm 20 years old and I fucking hate my life. Seriously. I can't remember ever having been happy. Not a single, fucking day. My father was an ill-tempered asshole and all my mother ever did was cry. I don't know which one of them I hate more, but I do know that I'm not going back. I'm riding on a full math scholarship and a 3.85 GPA, one more year of college, and then some boring fucking accounting job or something. Whatever it takes never to have to be in that house again. I'd be a teacher, but I hate kids and I think I'd end up in jail for strangling some smart ass little cheerleader bitch.

I was a cheerleader, you know. It's okay. You can laugh. I do. I only did it because Angela Weber told me sophomore year that I'd be good at it, and then that whore Lauren Mallory laughed at her. Angela wasn't like the rest of the cheerleaders; she was kind, and she was sincere, and when Lauren laughed her nasal donkey-laugh at her that day, instead of waiting a week and then starting a rumor that Lauren was blowing Tyler Crowley so he'd do her geometry homework for her, she sighed, looked Lauren straight in the eye and said, "Lauren, stop trying so hard to be a bitch. If you practiced the routines half as much as you run your mouth, you wouldn't be stuck in JV." Unfortunately, that wisdom was lost on Lauren, and she quit the squad that summer. Angela and I made Varsity Captain and Co-Captain by senior year.

Angela was the only real friend I had in school. Truth is, it was an ugly shock when I found out she wasn't going to U Dub, though it shouldn't have been. I guess I should have just asked her, like Ben did. I'm not stupid enough to think it was a pretty little coincidence that they both got accepted at Caltech. Ben may have been too much of a pussy to ask her out our entire high school career, but at least he wasn't stupid and we all knew she was in love with him. For all I know, they're probably married with children by now.

I don't know why it bothers me. Marriage and children are two things I have never wanted. Sounds like straight-up hell to me, if we're being honest, and we are. Men are only good for one thing, and it ain't their conversation. Not that I'm a slut, though I get enough offers that I could be if that were what I wanted. I'm picky. And dammit, I know it's stupid, but I have a _type_ and God help me if that type doesn't drive me straight up the fucking wall when he's not fucking me senseless. I would pay a lot of money for a tall, strong _mute_ with dimples and curly hair. If things go well on the technological front, maybe I can buy myself a sex android before I'm past my sexual peak.

***

My new roommate Alice is taking me to some stupid frat party tonight. She swears the whole baseball team will be there and, although I admit I have my eye on the first baseman, I'm so not in the mood for the chitchat and the groping. I usually avoid parties like I avoid dirty bathroom stalls, but what can I say? Alice has figured out that I can't say 'no' if she doesn't give me a chance to say anything at all. She's in the bathroom right now, using the straightener on her choppy little cap of hair and she hasn't shut up for probably the last half hour straight. I don't think she even breathes. Maybe _she's_ an android. At least she doesn't get mad at me when she realizes I'm not listening to her.

I'm lying on her bed with my feet up on the wall and my head hanging off the edge, bouncing a racquetball off the ceiling.

"Rosalie, makeup," she sings as she goes by. She's wearing a bright green mini-dress. It's the third dress I've seen her in since she started getting ready.

I flip her off and the ball bounces away across the room. I grumble and let my arms flop backward onto the floor rather than get up and go after it.

"Those people who tell you you don't really need it are ignorant," she says as she strips off the dress and puts it back on a hanger. "Not saying you're ugly, of course. Just that, even with perfect skin and pretty coloring like yours, going out without makeup is like- it's like going out in _sweats_." She puts her hands on her hips and lifts her sculpted eyebrows at my favorite skinny jeans and white ribbed turtleneck pointedly. "Or that. Is that what you call dressing up? Here." And she throws a pink dress at me. Pink.

"I'm not wearing that," I say, and throw it back. "And put something on, you slag. You're blinding me."

She jiggles her itty bitty boobies at me and laughs before stepping into a blue dress and zipping it up behind herself. Never have figured out how she does that. Then she takes a red dress out of the closet and throws it at me.

"Will you _stop_, Alice?" I say, finally sitting up and wadding the slinky fabric up in both hands. "What the fuck? I'm a foot taller than you. Why do you even think your shit would fit me?"

She smirks at me. "I bought that one for you. Do you like it better than the pink?"

I heave a sigh, roll my eyes, and hold it up to look at it. She's watching me expectantly and so I kinda shrug. I can't tell much about it except that it'll probably fit me like a glove. For the whole month since we met she's been giving me grief about how I dress, but even with her daddy's limitless credit it makes me feel weird that she bought me clothes. "Well, at least it's not pink?" I say.

"Just put it on." She's trying on shoes now, so I know I have time, and I just don't have the energy to argue with her.

Fifteen minutes and two coats of mascara later, I'm looking in the full length mirror and I have to admit, the girl knows what she's doing. It's tight and it's red but somehow I don't look like a streetwalker, and I'm standing there ogling my own rack when she's suddenly next to me, offering me a tube of lip gloss. I roll my eyes again, just so I don't feel like a pushover, and put it on. It's pink.

***

When we let ourselves into the little brick house, the first thing I see is Mr. First Baseman standing by a threadbare pool table with 8 or 9 other guys. I lock eyes with him and flash the grin that makes the boys sit up and beg. He grins back and just like that, I know the deal's done. Alice gives me a completely unnecessary elbow to the ribs and then drags me past them into the kitchen. From the smell of things, they got the party started fast and early, and we're more than a little behind. We step carefully around the keg, pour ourselves some whiskey and Cokes, and tip the rims together before we drain them.

"So, did I deliver or did I deliver?"

"You delivered," I concede.

The lip gloss she gave me tastes like bubble gum. I make sure to lick it all off between swallows of my second drink because, for some reason, the thought of that boy tasting it on me gives me the willies. And they always want to kiss. For the record, my sex android will not require kissing. I do want to look at my Baseman again though, and I'm about to interrupt Alice's babbling when suddenly he walks into the kitchen with us. Actually, he kind of swaggers. I notice now that he's very drunk, and I hope to God he's not too drunk to get it up because he's got dimples for miles and his legs in those jeans are-

Alice elbows me again.

I laugh. I can't help it, because his eyes haven't left my tits since he leaned against the fridge to stop his swaying. I hand Alice my plastic cup so I can grab his hand. Without saying a word, I follow him down a short, dimly lit hallway into his room. On second thought, it's probably not even his room. The place is a mess, but it has its own bath, and he's already unbuttoning his fly when I start feeling short of breath and excuse myself to pee.

I've always felt a little weird at the beginning. Probably my mother's weak, shitty genes. Maybe I should slut it up more often than I do, so I'll get used to it.

When I'm done washing my hands, I stare at myself in the mirror, take a few deep breaths. _I hate my life_, I suddenly think, then just as quickly sneer at my reflection. _What, you wanna save yourself for Twu Wuv?_ I've been feeling the itch lately and I know it. Rubbing one out at night after Alice falls asleep only does so much for me, and so I hang the towel back up and go right back out there, 'cause Mr. First Baseman is just my type.

Except that he's out cold, his mouth and his pants both hanging open, sprawled out across half the queen size bed.

I sigh heavily and sit down next to him, stroke my fingers lightly over the crisp, dark blonde waves of his hair. He looks like a little boy.

"Well, that sucks," chirps Alice.

I jump to my feet and half out of my skin, letting out an embarrassing yelp before I can control myself.

She's leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, smirking. For a change though, she doesn't keep talking, and I can't look at her. I don't know why the hell I feel like I just got caught doing something wrong but I do. She walks in and right up to the bed, puts both hands under Sleeping Beauty and, in an impressive show of strength, rolls him over twice before stretching out on her back next to him. She puts her arms behind her head and crosses her ankles neatly. I notice that she chose a pair of black sandals with a t-strap and a delicate gold chain around each of her fine-boned little ankles. The heels are some strange gold curvy shape more like a table leg than a shoe heel. I can't say that I know much about fashion, but I do like that chain. It glitters in the low light, and she wiggles her toes as if she knows I'm looking. Her toenails are painted gold, too. She has pretty feet, white and smooth and perfectly shaped. They're probably soft and smell nice too, knowing her.

Just as I'm deciding I should have taken her up on her last offer of a pedicure, she pats the bed next to her. I'm startled again. She's never been quiet for this long, except when she's asleep.

I drop down next to her, deliberately letting a good bit of long, wavy, blonde hair fall over her face. My head is on her right arm but she didn't move it so I figure it's her fault if it falls asleep. She turns onto her side to face me without freeing the arm and just looks at me. She's staring, and she's inches from my face, and she's still not talking, and of all a sudden I feel this tingle of self-consciousness and …weirdness.

So I say, "You couldn't find a guy, Alice? Seriously?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see her grin. She doesn't fucking answer me, and though the quiet should be like a dream come true, it's kinda freaking me out. I need to say something, anything, to cut the building tension but for some reason that one lame attempt at an insult was all I had. I swallow past a lump in my throat and finally just turn my head toward the bathroom so I can't see her anymore. _Holy shit, I think she's coming on to me_, I think, and in that moment I feel her touch my neck. She doesn't grab my legs or my tits, or plant her mouth on me anywhere, just strokes one finger along the skin of my neck starting from up near the corner of my jaw and trailing slowly, almost without pressure, down to the hollow between my collarbones. It can't have taken more than four or five seconds, but in those moments every hair on my body is on end and I feel my knees lifting as my thighs clench together of their own accord.

I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until it shudders out of me while her finger trails outward over my collarbone. By the time it's on its way back, I'm trembling. She hasn't even finished with the second collarbone before I turn to finally look her full in the face. Her eyes are the most amazing blue-and-green, like a cat's, and I see a faint smattering of freckles across her nose that I'd never noticed before. Her hand curves around my neck now, thumb on my cheek, fingers pressing lightly behind my ear, into the edge of my scalp.

I'm looking at the Cupid's bow of her soft, pink lips, wondering if they taste like bubblegum, and they curve into a mysterious smile that sets off a blush I can feel pour past my face into my throat and chest. I need her to kiss me; the waiting is driving me insane, burning me in up a slow, tingling, spreading throb. It suddenly occurs to me that I'm ridiculous to be waiting. I reach for her, put an embarrassingly shaky hand on her hip. Just before I lean in, she pushes her hand up into my hair. Her fingers curl, fingernails scrape against my scalp, and involuntarily I moan. My eyes flutter closed and my chin lifts and I'm panting softly, but then finally, finally her mouth is on me.

She presses hot, open-mouthed kisses against my throat. I bite into my lip to keep from whimpering when I feel the drag of her teeth but I can't help the way my hand grabs at her, fisting a handful of that soft, floaty blue dress. Our legs tangle up and by the time our mouths finally crash together I'm sure I'm wetter and more completely and helplessly wound up than I've ever been in my life. And I have no clue what I'm doing.

She straddles me suddenly. Her face is hectic with excitement under her expensive blusher and her lips are swollen and even her crazy hair is a little off-kilter. Somehow, I start laughing. I have my hands on her thighs, up high under her skirt, my high heels are sunk into some stranger's comforter and the ceiling fan is blowing cool air against my wet panties and I'm laughing. Her warm, silky skin is perfect under my fingers, and I'm thinking about the lacey, dark purple boy shorts she's wearing that make her ass look like a runway model's, and I'm laughing. I have no idea why.

She smirks at me. It's the same smirk she always uses, but her voice is low and slow and husky when she says, "Are you laughing at me, bitch?"

"I always knew you wanted me," I answer in almost exactly the same tone. "Slut."

"Liar," she chuckles, and leans forward so her weight presses down into my chest. Her tongue reaches out and touches my chin. "I hide my crushes well."

"Unlike your tits," I whisper, and she laughs again.

She sits up then with her lower lip caught between her teeth and slides down the spaghetti straps of her dress. I try to keep my eyes on her face but I just can't. Her little tits are so damn perfect. She's pink and white and my breath catches when I reach up to touch her and her nipples get hard immediately under my thumbs.

"You've never been with a girl before," she says, and I shake my head even though it wasn't a question.

She just smiles at me and watches me and lets me caress her until my hips involuntarily lift under her, and then she pulls the straps of my dress down off my shoulders and starts touching me, too. It's that same gentle touch, fingertips teasing and fingernails scraping hot trails over my skin like we've got all the time in the world. Then she puts her mouth on me again and my brain just stops working.

I let my hands drop helplessly to the bed and close my eyes and just lie there as she makes love to me. I'm not usually like that. I usually do most of the work, just to make sure that I get what I want out of it, mind you. I can count all my experiences on just a little more than one hand and I bet not one of them ever guessed I was anything but thoroughly experienced. Not even the first one. But this time, something- I couldn't tell you what- makes me just… trust. I lie there and I let myself just feel every second of it, gasping and squirming and moaning under her hands and lips and teeth and tongue, and then I'm bucking and screaming out four letter words and prayers and sweating in my red dress and I even smack Mr. First Baseman once, making him open his eyes for a moment and give me a lopsided, drunken grin before passing out again.

She curls up next me, her dress still down around her waist, and just lets me come down quietly. Finally, I realize I have tears running down my face and I start laughing again.

"Are you laughing at me, bitch?" she giggles.

"Nah," I breathe. "I'm laughing at _me_."

Mr. First Baseman turns over and flops his arm around her, and we both start cracking up.

***

She unlocks the door of our apartment and lets me walk in first. I haven't said a word since we left the party, not even when I realized I left my panties in that loser's bed, and neither has Alice. My body is still limp with relaxation and tingling softly, and my brain feels as sleepy as my legs do. I slump onto my bed without even kicking off my shoes and hide my face in the pillow because I feel a silly smile coming on and I don't want to be made fun of.

As soon as she flicks on the light in her room, old Alice is back, jabbering so loudly the neighbors will probably start banging on the wall to shut her up.

"Well, I have to say, that went a lot better than I was expecting, don't you think? I mean, your boy was awfully cute and I bet he had a hell of a chest under that shirt. Did you see his forearms?"

I can hear her peeling her dress off and folding it before setting it in her dry-clean basket, then taking off those crazy-heeled strap and chain shoes and settling them in their place on her cedar shoe rack.

"It's a shame we didn't even find out his name. I bet he won't remember nearly enough to know to be embarrassed and he might have been good for a booty call later. Though, duh, we can look him up in the student directory. I'm pretty sure he's a junior, but he's a first string player so he's gotta be on the team's page. Gotta say though, pitchers are generally more my speed. They're so cocky, and I daresay they hold their booze better."

I look across the hall to see her tugging her skimpy pajama top down over her hips in front of the closet and think, not for the first time, that her ass is incredible. For the first time, I swear, I think about getting up and going over there to grab it in both hands. Suddenly, I realize she's stopped talking again and is looking at me over her shoulder. She's not smirking though. She waits for me to blush before she turns around and walks over to my bed to sit down. My heart is doing strange things in my chest.

"Alice…"

"Don't go getting all mushy on me, Rose," she interrupts. She leans back on her hands and crosses her bare feet at the ankles. "It's really lame to fall in love right after your first time."

I scowl at her and she relents with a soft laugh.

"You are so sexy when you're mad," she whispers, and leans in to kiss my mouth. "Did you know your eyes change color?" She kisses my jaw. "And your eyebrows do this… thing. I swear it drives me crazy." She kisses my neck just under my ear.

I can't believe she's accusing me of getting mushy just because I had sex with her. And what if I am? Why is she rejecting me in one breath and seducing me again in the next? But I can feel my body reacting to her just like the first time, a low, shivery heat panging under my belly button and spreading out toward my limbs with each throb of my racing heartbeat. I keep scowling as my breathing gets ragged, and about the time the sex-heat is making my fingers go numb and Alice is pressing her teeth into the muscle that connects my neck and left shoulder, I finally decide I'm not just mad. I'm really, really mad. And it's all Alice's fault. Who gave _her_ the right to stir up my shit and then act like it's just a Saturday night itch scratch? How _dare_ she?

I put my hands on her shoulders and push her off me. I don't let go of her though and I glare at her with my fingers sunk into her white skin so hard I know it's probably going to bruise but I don't care. She doesn't look surprised; the knowing look on her face maddens me even more. I want to hit her. I want to throw her, and pick her up and throw her again, and-

And then suddenly I can't see as my eyes fill with tears and I let go of her and slap my hands over my face before an embarrassing noise comes out of my mouth. I feel my shoulders curving inward and even my toes curling and I can't seem to breathe. "Oh my God, Alice," I gasp, just before the tears spill. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

I spend the next hour crying on her shoulder in my bed and then the rest of the night having strange dreams in her arms.

The next morning, she's asleep when I wake up so I climb over her and drag myself to the bathroom. I stand there and let the shower stream over my shoulders while I stare at my feet and the water swirling around them into the drain. I know I should be trying to figure out what's going on with me, why I've cried more in the last eight hours than I have in… well, ever. Happy tears, sex tears, mad tears, sad tears. It's like I've turned into my mom all of a sudden. But that's about as far as the thoughts go.

So I'm just watching the water between my toes and I haven't even washed my hair when I hear Alice come into the bathroom. I lean against the cold tile and actually smile a little as she starts up.

"Fuck, Blondezilla, it's like a sauna in here. You're probably dooming every crop in some lovely little Mexican town somewhere to complete devastation, you know that? Single-handedly." Even muffled by her toothbrush, she keeps right on going. "And you better not be using my razor. Don't think I don't know you do that. I could collect your stubble and use it as mulch for those horrid roses out in front of the Math building. Why do you geeky types even try to pretend you like things pretty? Don't you think it would be a better show of intellect…"

I purposely grab her shampoo bottle instead of mine and start to wash my hair.

***

We spend the whole lazy Sunday cleaning our apartment, take an hour and a half to buy thirty dollars worth of groceries, and watch some excruciatingly bad reality show in the student activity center while scooping Nutella out of the jar with pretzel sticks. Alice keeps up a nonstop chattering and for once, it doesn't really bother me. Finally, at about eight, while we're sitting on the futon in our living room watching our goldfish eat snails with our bare feet on the coffee table between half-empty boxes of Chinese broccoli beef and moo goo gai pan, I suddenly feel the need to say, "Alice, I'm not homophobic, you know."

She smiles cheerfully and says, "I know."

"Why can't I be in love with you? Would that be so bad?" I murmur.

She leans over and kisses my cheek noisily, then gets up and walks over to the bookshelves. She plucks off a framed 4x6, the only picture up there that's mine, and tosses it at me like a Frisbee. "You are not my destiny, Rosalie Hale, even though you are a tall, blonde, blue-eyed work of _art_ and I could certainly get used to looking at you." She winks saucily. "But you need to sort out your shit, or you're going to turn into a serial anger fuck. If you ask me, it's a damn waste." And then she wanders into her bedroom singing something I swear is from a kids' show, and shuts the door on me.

I lay the photo in my lap without even looking at it and sigh, leaning my head back and staring up at the aquarium light shimmering across the ceiling in undulating waves. I don't know why I still have this picture. I can see every detail of it without looking. It's a picture of me and Angela in our blue and white Forks High cheerleading uniforms. She's red-cheeked with laughter and I'm smirking with my eyes narrowed against a rare day's sun. Her dark curls are loose, wind-lifted, and reflecting reddish glints, and her arm is thrown over my shoulders. Alice doesn't know about Ben, that he was there that day, standing next to the camera as Eric snapped this picture. How could she know that Angela's smile is for him, that the light in her eyes is always for him? Why would she know Angela loves Ben, if I never told her?

Then again, I didn't know why I cared so much until today.

I hate my life.

I toss the photo aside and it tumbles off a cushion onto the floor, bouncing once and then landing face down. I frown at it for a few moments, then sigh, pick it back up, and set it upright on the table next to the unopened fortune cookies. I hate fortune cookies. I hate the fortunes inside fortune cookies. They're insipid bullshit written by talentless hacks and every time some idiot squeals "in bed" like it's the funniest thing ever, I just want to punch 'em in the cakehole. But Angela is smiling at me and so I open them carefully, one at a time, and nibble at the cookies as I flatten the slips of paper against the edge of the table before reading them.

They both say the same thing: "If certainty were truth, we would never be wrong."

See what I mean? What the fuck does that mean, anyway?

***

A month has passed and Alice and I have stayed out of each other's beds, though sometimes it's not easy. We came close one Tuesday night after a few mimosas and a mutual pedicure. Her feet really are like soft porn without music. I guess I'm a fetishist. Who would've guessed? But I managed to think about Angela in the middle of kissing Alice, and somehow she knew. She laughed at me and said I was hopeless and asked me if I'd called Angela yet. Of course I haven't. Why would I do that to myself? I may hate my life, but I don't hate myself. I deserve better than torturing myself like this, but I'm not sure what to do about it.

I go out for a run and a tall, lean-muscled bicyclist stops to chat me up during a water break. His hair is too long, shaggy like he can't decide whether to cut it or go all-out hippie, but it's blue-black and shiny, plastered wet against the skin of his neck, and his brown eyes keep dipping to where sweat is trailing slowly down between my breasts to disappear behind the v-neck of my t-shirt. His eyelashes are insanely distracting, and even after I tell him he's too fucking young for me, he just laughs this joyful, boyish laugh and I feel the beginnings of a tingle between my legs, so I give him my number. The next day when he texts me, I'm sitting at the kitchen table pretending to do Calculus homework while I watch Alice do the dishes. She's singing some inane pop song and wiggling her hips and shoulders, and she's even barefooted. Whore. She knows I'm watching her because she blows me a kiss over her shoulder when I turn the phone face down on the table.

"Bitch," I mutter, and throw my pencil at her.

"Call Angela," she singsongs.

I flip her off, leave my homework all over the table, and go pretend to take a nap.

I'm restless and pissed off and I close the blinds and the drapes so I can stare at Bicycle Boy's text for a while in the dark. "Hi beautiful remember me? Call if u wanna go out Fri. –Embry." I can't believe his name is Embry. _Embry._ Who the fuck names their kid Embry? Sounds like 'embryo.' He's probably a momma's boy and an idiot. But he typed out his text without using so much asinine text speak I couldn't read it, so he can't be a complete ape. And he had a nice package under his bicycle shorts. God fucking bless bicycle shorts.

I drop the phone and close my eyes, think about those bicycle shorts for a while. I think about his eyelashes and the flash of his white teeth when he laughed. He had gorgeous skin, all flushed under the brown, and these exotic eyes and high cheekbones like a Native American. There are lots of Natives around here. I bet he's Quileute. He was certainly confident. I like that. I start thinking about his mouth again and slip my hand under the waistband of my panties. I've never let a guy go down on me before but suddenly, in this moment, it's all I can think about. I think about the way he laughed and then picture his full lips and his dark head between my thighs. I imagine his tongue on me as my fingers start moving.

His tongue on me, and his lips around me, sucking and pulling and teasing me 'til I'm dripping wet. I dip my fingers down there and imagine it's the tip of a hot tongue testing me, tasting. Teasing back up and pressing just enough to make me want more. Her teeth scraping at me at just the right moment to make my back arch and my thighs quake so I don't even notice she's pushed her fingers into me until they're already knuckles deep and playing me inside like a violin at a heavy metal concert with her lips wrapped around the volume knob on the outside. Yeah, I know, I know. It's Alice I'm thinking about, not whatever his name was. But I don't care, 'cause after I'm spent and I'm lying there curled up with the pillow cooling my cheek, I can still hear her singing somewhere in the apartment, and yet somehow I start to wonder what Angela's doing, and if California is as pretty as she is.

***

Tonight is Halloween and Alice told me to dress up if I wanted her to take me to a bitchin' costume party. It's pathetic of me, but I hope that means she wants to sleep with me again. She doesn't show up to make me her dress-up doll though, and I end up buying a pair of fuzzy four dollar cat ears at the convenience store down the street. I dig that pink dress out of her closet and try it on in her room. It's neither as tight nor as short as the red one, but the back is nearly nonexistent and the whole thing's held up by a wide satin ribbon that makes my skin glow. I actually like it.

I'm on my second application of lip gloss, three beers in, and about to cave and either call her cell phone or smash mine into smithereens against the wall when I finally hear her come in the front door. She's laughing and babbling and I storm in there to tell her off but when I see him, I can't say a word. She hanging off the arm of a tall, scrawny, artsy type with crazy blonde hair and blue eyes and long dimples that come and go as he hangs on her every word, enraptured. They're wearing matching costumes: Peter Pan and Tinkerbell. Cute. I think I might actually vomit.

"Look who I met at the costume shop," she gushes, bouncing up and down in her flat-heeled green slippers like she misses her stilettos. "Rose, this is Jasper. Jasper, this is my roommate, Rosalie."

I clench my jaw at him. "Nice tights."

He drags his eyes away from her long enough to give me a quick once-over and grins at me like my seething anger doesn't faze him. "Nice to meet you, too," he drawls. An accent? God.

"Oh, I knew that pink dress would look amazing on you!" Alice squeals. "Six feet of sex kitten, isn't she, Jasper?"

He chuckles and nods without looking at me again.

"Are you ready to go?" she asks. Her eyes are on me, and I know they see everything.

"I- I have a date," I blurt, and sweep past them, grabbing my keys.

I park on campus and take off my shoes to walk through the grass toward the fountain even though it's fucking freezing. I should have brought a jacket but I didn't have a plan, and I just can't stand the thought of being in a crowd right now. I drop onto a bench and lean my elbows on my knees to stare at the water. I'm not crying, believe it or not. I'm not even mad anymore. Alice looked happy, radiant, and I'm just an empty shell.

I hear someone sit next to me and I sigh. I wish I'd brought my phone so I could pretend I was busy.

"Pink pussy?" he jokes and I roll my eyes. His voice is deep and rich and when I turn my head to sneer at him I'm not surprised that he's gorgeous. Just my type.

"Little dick?" I answer and look away again.

"Emmett," he responds. I can hear that he's still grinning. I must be losing my bitch-touch.

My shoulders sag and I lean back on the cold bench as I let the fight go out of me. "Rosalie," I grunt, and start playing with the strap of one of my shoes.

Miraculously, he says nothing else for a while, just sits and watches the fountain splash. I shiver. He takes off his jacket, waits until I sit up, and slips it around my shoulders. It smells good, like leather and aftershave. I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and tell myself if I were smart, I'd be looking up at him sidelong and biting my lip and asking him if there weren't somewhere warmer we could be.

A bird lands on the edge of the fountain and hops toward the water to take a drink. I wonder what Angela's doing.

"Do you need to borrow a phone?" Emmett asks.

I gape at him. "What?"

"It's in the right pocket." He gestures with his chin. "You look like you need to call someone?" I blink at him stupidly and he grins again. "I could give you a ride if you want."

"N- no," I finally stammer. "I have a car. I just- I was looking for a place to think."

"Ah."

"I'm in love with my best friend," I blurt, and immediately my face goes completely red. What the fuck is wrong with me? But he nods quietly and my mouth keeps right on going. "I haven't seen her or talked to her since high school and she has no idea and she's probably married with children by now and I can't stop thinking about her. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or how long it's supposed to take to just move on, or even if I will. What if I'm one of those complete social fucktards who chooses the most impossible, unreachable goal in her love life and then- then turns into a serial anger fuck and ends up old and saggy and all alone, yelling at people in parking lots and making waitresses cry because I hate my life?"

I can't believe I said it all out loud. I drop one of my shoes and lean down to pick it up, then rake a hand through my hair, knocking off the stupid cat ears I'd forgotten all about.

Emmett plucks them off the grass and hands them back to me. I don't thank him because I'm afraid to open my mouth again.

After several more silent minutes have passed, he says, "So, you just stopped talking to her and ran off?"

I scowl at the bird as it bathes obliviously in the frigid water.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Emmett twiddling his thumbs between his knees. "That seems kinda harsh."

"What was I supposed to do?" I snap.

"I thought you were best friends. Talk to her?"

"I'm supposed to cry on _her_ shoulder about being in love with her. Oh, right. That won't be awkward at all."

"You don't have to tell her that part. But, damn. She's probably wondering what the hell happened to make you go from best friend to complete lockdown. I would be if I were her."

A second bird lands on the fountain's edge and the first flutters away.

"I can't," I whisper.

"You really think it'll be worse than this?" he says, just as quietly.

Yes. Maybe. Maybe not…

I start thinking about Angela and Ben. About Angela holding a beautiful, curly-haired baby. Angela's smile. She smiles for the baby. She smiles for Ben. It doesn't matter. I wish I could see her smile. I want to hear her voice. I want to hear her laugh and tell me how happy she is. I do.

"We could always try the anger fuck," Emmett says right then.

I roll my eyes but I'm grinning, too. "Dick."

"Dyke."

I punch him in the arm and he groans, "Now you have to drive me the hospital."

"Dream on," I say.

"So, are you gonna call her?"

"I- I think I am." I smile and jump to my feet. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm gonna go call her right now."

He stands up with me, grinning at me easily like he solves people's problems every day. I throw my arms around him impulsively and press my face into his shoulder.

"Thanks, Emmett," I whisper.

He squeezes me and nods. "Good luck."

I turn back toward the parking area, but Emmett grabs my arm before I can walk away.

"Can I have my jacket back?"

I laugh and peel it off and press it against his chest after taking one last sniff of it, then I run all the way to my car.

***

It only takes me about 6 minutes of Googling to find her number and the heater hasn't even warmed the car yet when I punch it in. My fingers are fumbling more from nerves than from cold so I hit "Send" fast before I can chicken out. I'm listening to it ringing with butterflies churning in my stomach, smiling because her last name is still Weber when her voice mail picks up. Her voice makes me feel happier than anything has in as long as I can remember and I hope she'll hear the happiness when she listens to the message. "Hi, Angela. It's Rosalie. Long time. I was just… hoping to touch base. I miss you." I hang up, hold my breath for a three-count, then drop the phone into my lap and slap my hands over the grin on my face.

***

I'm asleep on the futon when Angela calls back, and when she hears my sleepy 'hello,' she almost hangs up on me before I manage to make her stop apologizing.

"I'm really, really, so glad you called back," I breathe.

"Why wouldn't I?" Her voice is perfect, just how I remember it, calm and sweet. I can hear that she's smiling.

"It's just, it's been so long," I say. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Are you okay? How have you been?"

"Lonely," I admit. "I wish I'd called you years ago."

"I've thought about calling you, too," she answers. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. I hear a loud noise over her microphone, then a man's voice, and she sounds suddenly rushed. "That's Ben. I'm sorry! Look, I'll call you back tomorrow, I swear." And just like that, she's gone, and I feel like I've been gut punched, and I think maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

***

I crawl out of bed before nine and go for a run because I feel as though I'll crawl out of my skin with restlessness if I don't do something. The cell phone feels like a live wire in my hand the whole time, and when I set it on the counter by the shower, I wonder briefly what will happen if I answer it while I'm rinsing my hair. Luckily, I don't have to find out because it doesn't ring until I'm curled up around a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats on the futon, staring at the fish tank and wondering if Alice spent the night at Jasper's and if she's still feeling as sublimely happy as she seemed last night.

"Hi, Angela," I say, trying to keep the pathetic sadness out of my voice.

"Rose! I'm so sorry I ditched on you last night."

"Oh, whatever," I say with a forced laugh. "I understand."

"Ben's puppy got her head stuck in the bookshelf, and- well, by the time we got the mess cleaned up, it was so late. I probably should have waited to call you in the first place."

"Stop apologizing, Angie. Seriously. It's okay."

"Rose… I've missed you so much. You have no idea."

I smile a little. "What are you up to? Taking Caltech by storm?"

"Oh, you know. The workload is crazy, but I should be graduating in the spring. Are you still in Seattle?"

"Yeah… graduating in the spring, too."

"You gonna do grad school?"

"I don't think so. I'm feeling… restless. Need a change of scene, you know?"

"Yeah." Her voice is soft again. "I've been thinking about you since you called. You said you were lonely and I've just felt so bad."

That hurts a little – her pity - and I have to force my voice to stay light. "Oh, no need to feel sorry for me. I'm fine. I was just in a nostalgic mood last night, I guess. I'm really fine. I have this great roommate, Alice, and I have so much homework, it's not like I have a ton of time for socializing anyway."

"Oh."

There's a brief, awkward pause and I make myself ask, "How are you… and Ben?" My stomach clenches so tightly I regret the Mini-Wheats.

She chuckles. "Depends on the day you ask. I was just telling him last night you were a much better best friend than he is. You, at least, would have asked before bringing home a puppy. A puppy! Can you imagine?"

Emmett was SO wrong. This definitely hurts more. All I can manage is a weak "Yeah…"

"It could have been worse though," she continues, oblivious to my pain. "Last year, he brought home this horrible girl. She wasn't even a student. I thought it was just some skanky sleepover at first, but three days later, she was still here, eating my Pop Tarts and asking me where the laundry detergent was…"

She's still talking but I'm not listening. I'm so confused. Is he cheating on her? Angela's not the type to just… take it like that. Is she? Is _anybody_? Don't guys usually sneak around and lie? They don't just bring girls home and-

"Rose?"

"Sorry. I'm here. I just… Angie, how can you let him treat you like that?"

"I'm not his mom, Rose. I mean, she stopped using my stuff as soon as I said something, and he made her pay rent for as long as it lasted, which wasn't long. Ben's got the worst taste in girls I've ever seen."

"Okay, I thought you and Ben were, you know, together."

There's another brief pause. "No. Not for a long time now. I don't know that I'd say we ever were."

"I always thought- I mean, ever since high school… weren't you in love with him?"

"I guess I had a crush, yeah. Turned out, he wasn't who I thought he was. Or I wasn't. I dunno." Her voice trails off for a moment, and before my brain can catch up, she asks, "Are you going home for Thanksgiving? To Forks?"

I'd rather baste myself and climb into an oven, and she probably knows it, but I say, "I haven't decided yet. Are you?"

"Yeah. It sure would be nice to see you." She pauses. I smile because I've already made my decision. Then she continues, "If you need a place to stay…"

"I could stay with you?" I blurt, shocked at the offer.

"Well, unless things have changed with your parents-"

"Not at all," I laugh.

***

It's Thanksgiving Day, and Angela's parents are in the den watching the game with my father. My mother is at the sink, washing dishes with Angela, and I'm at the table, not even pretending to help. My mother keeps smiling at me so I force myself not to look at Angela's ass, but it's not easy. I can't believe what's been happening.

When I rang the bell yesterday and Angela answered the door, it was like no time had passed at all. She flashed this smile at me like sunshine, dimples and all, and threw her arms around me and all of a sudden I realized that I had just thought I was in love with her. I had actually forgotten how good her hair smelled, and how perfectly her chin went on my shoulder, and how taut and lean her back felt under my hands. Right then, on her doorstep on a Wednesday evening, I fell in love with her and I knew that even if I never had the guts to tell her, I could never make myself be without her again.

I then realized I'd been holding her for a little too long with my face in her hair and my right thumb rubbing little circles on her sweater between her shoulder blades. When I stepped back, I realized she hadn't let go of me yet either. I blushed and she stammered, and she carried my bag for me into their guest room. We made small talk I can't remember while she reminded me unnecessarily where everything was and I took a ridiculously long time unpacking my toiletries.

We sat on the bed and talked for hours, about our classes and our apartments and our plans for the future, about Ben and Alice, his puppy and her goldfish, and by the time she excused herself so I could get ready for bed, I didn't think anymore that it was my imagination when her eyes lingered on my mouth or her hand rested a little too long on my leg. I licked my lower lip slowly and watched her blush as she said goodnight.

She asked if I was wearing lip gloss.

I said, "Yeah," and then whispered,"It tastes like bubblegum."

Her breath caught and she told me she liked the way I looked in pink.

And after she ran away I fell back onto her guest bed and pulled the pillow over my face and laughed until I almost cried.

I have been so, so stupid.

Watching her rinse gravy off her parents' good china is the sexiest thing I have ever seen. She has most gorgeous hands, like an artist or a musician. Her skin is this perfect olive-golden tan and with the water making it shine I keep thinking about licking the bones of her wrist, and sucking on her fingers. She keeps cracking little jokes that make my mother laugh and then glancing back at me shyly. My heart feels like it's going to burst.

Finally, my parents excuse themselves and, all things considered, they weren't even awful. Angela's father is snoring in the Laz-E-Boy and her mother has gone back to her bedroom to nap. If it were any other Thanksgiving Day, I'd be so stuffed I'd be catatonic too, but all I did was push my food around on my plate and play footsie with Angela under the table and I'm so full of crazy energy I feel like I could stay awake forever.

She's so nervous it makes me want to kiss her.

"Let's go back to your room," I say, and her eyes light up and my stomach flip flops.

As soon as the door closes behind us, we both start talking.

"I can't believe I never-"

"Is it just my imagi-"

And we laugh, and then I put my hands on her face and say, "Angela, may I kiss you?" She swallows nervously and just nods and licks her lips.

I lean in, but just before I put my mouth on her, I decide I really need to stop and touch her instead. I run my thumbs over the smooth, soft planes of her cheeks and I watch the blood rush into them; I trail my fingertips lightly over the lines of her jaw, tracing little circles from her earlobes forward until my fingers meet under her pointed little chin, and I watch her full, soft lips part; I put my right thumb on that trembling lower lip and tug it downward a bit 'til she gasps, and I see in her eyes that I'm driving her crazy. So, finally, I close that last bit of distance and I can't even bring myself to close my eyes as I brush my lips over hers once, and then twice. Then I catch her top lip in mine softly, release it to catch her lower lip the same way, and before I can tease her anymore, she pushes up against me and kisses me hard.

I wanted to tease her and tempt her and touch her everywhere an inch at a time 'til she melted in my arms and begged me to make love to her, but apparently, she's a hot-blooded little wildcat, and in about 5 minutes flat the door is locked and our clothes are on the floor and our hands and our mouths are on each other like it's our wedding night.

Neither of us knows what we're doing, really, but I did have Alice and I pretend like a champ. Also, Angela learns fast. She was always smart like that.

God, I love her.

***

My name is Rosalie Hale. I'm 20 years old and I _love_ my life.


End file.
